Home Is Where The Haunt Is
by gently-used-fairytale
Summary: A simple ghost hunt goes haywire at Sam's expense. A little Halloween treat from your very own, SaltedShotguns. Gracious hurt!Sam and bigbro!Dean, as always. Written in a night. Unbetaed. Beware of schoomp. Rating for some language.


Salem, Massachusetts

Present Day

 _Fucking ouija boards._ Dean thought miserably as he ran through a ramshackle Halloween attraction, dodging hanging signs and fake hanging cobwebs.

If anything, this hunt was supposed to be basic. Just a pissed off spirit wreak havoc on Salem during Halloween, which of course, earned the case it's fair share of attention.

The rip-off Halloween attraction had profited from the sudden rush of consumers, primarily their quote unquote 'Spirit Strolls' through the one and a half acre plot of land and the dilapidated 1800s cabin itself.

Employees in period costume spouted stories about murders inside and around the property, causing a miniature graveyard to build up underneath the cabin. Bits and pieces of the stories were true, though most was a façade to bring in more customers.

Patrons were given a vintage-looking ouija board and were encouraged to use the board in the north field which was said to hold corpses of murder victims.

A few mildly sadistic teens took up the offer, and unknowingly pissed off a few dozen spirits, causing another dozen murders.

And so the Winchester brothers took up the case, assuming there was only one restless spirit, when in reality there were around 12 or 13.

But luckily, so long as the remaining boards were burned along with the dingy cabin, the spirits would be put at rest.

Unfortunately, gift shops were scattered throughout the property, each containing a supply of 50 ouija boards.

4 out of 6 gift shops and 200 boards were burned, 2 per brother, as Sam and Dean had split the property, one taking the upper half and the other the lower.

Dean struck a match, tossing it into the toppling pile of boxed ouija boards, watching the pile sizzle and smoke for a moment, before ducking as thick wooden shelf as it was ripped from the wall and thrown at his head.

He rushed quickly through the cheaply decorated fields via fading gravel paths.

Upon reaching the remaining gift shop, Dean noted that no amber firelight showed through the windows, nor was Sam outside waiting for him, like they'd planned.

"Sammy?" he called, pushing the large oak door open. Dean's heart jumped to his throat as a low moan echoed from the back of the shop.

 **30 Minutes Earlier**

 _Sam poured salt liberally over the towering pile of ouija boards, tossing the salt and lighter fluid to the side, pulling his hoodie closer to his body as a frigid wind rippled through the shop._

 _Sam turned around briefly at the sound of a loud thump from behind him._

 _"Dean?" He guessed, figuring that his brother might have finished before him._

 _Sam fumbled for his shotgun at the sight of three misty specters at the opposite end of the room._

 _Sam stumbled backwards, fingers shakily grasping the shotgun, bringing it up aiming best he could at the center specter._

 _Before he could shoot, one of the three spirits flung him across the room like a rag doll, sending him crashing into the far wall with enough force to crack the plaster._

 _Sam slid to the ground with a moan, vision blurring, darkness closing in around the edges._

 _Nausea curled in his stomach, bike creeping up his throat, eliciting a whimper from Sam as he curled in on himself._

 _He'd momentarily forgotten about the spirits, that again made themselves known by throwing a slightly disassembled bench across the room to land on Sam's arm._

 _The bench landed on his arm with a sickening thud, twisting his arm at an angle, jerking the bone viscously from the socket._

 _Pain sprouted in his arm, and he prayed it wasn't broken._

 _The spirits seemed to have had their fill, exiting the shop with another sickening rush of cold air._

Dean rushed towards his distraught little brother, stomach lurching as he noticed the bench sitting atop Sam's arm, jerking it at such an angle it looked as if it was no longer connected to his shoulder.

"Hey Sammy, easy, easy," Dean soothed, trying to assess multiple wounds without worrying his clearly concussed little brother.

"Dean," Sam whined, "get it off."

Dean glanced at the bench crushing his arm, guessing it was heavy, understanding why Sam would want it off.

"Okay, okay," Dean quieted, running a his fingers through unruly cinnamon locks.

"I'm gonna get it off you, okay?" Dean kept one hand resting in Sam's hair in an attempt to keep Sam calm while he yanked the heavy bench from his arm, willing himself to lift it rather than drag it across his arm.

Dean pulled the bench up and quickly tossed it to the side, turning back to his whimpering little brother, who'd curled into a tight ball, clutching his arm.

"Sammy," Dean hushed, placing a hand on Sam's trembling shoulder, "lemme see, I can make it better." Concussions always took a lot out of the kid, causing him to revert to a clingy 5 year old, forcing Dean back into prying mother hen mode.

Dean gently grasped Sam's shredded arm, blood coating his sleeve. Definitely broken.

Damn ghosts needed to cut the kid a break.

Dean eased Sam up so he leaned heavily onto his chest, only then did he notice Sam's arm -his only 'good' arm- lying limply at his side rather than pawing at Dean's jacket and t-shirt, pleading silently for comfort.

"Your left dislocated?" Dean asked quietly, getting a nod in response. There was a brief moment of chaos when Dean popped Sam's shoulder back into the joint, giving his already abused senses more pain to account for.

"Hey Dean?" Sam whispered meekly, resting against his big brother's chest.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Dean smirked at how chick-flicky Sam could get, knowing full well that Dean had his back whether he liked it or not.

"And, Sam? No more Halloween hunts."


End file.
